Chapter 3 - The Unraveling of Trevor's Delusions
The ride back to the Vance estate was silent, but it was not an uncomfortable silence.
The armored Maybach glided through the rainy streets of Chicago like a submarine cut through dark water. Rain swept across the tinted windows, blurring the neon signs of Michigan Avenue into streaks of gold and crimson.
In the back seat, Sadi sat curled against Roman’s side. Roman had his long arm wrapped securely around her shoulders, his fingers lightly stroking her arm through the soft cashmere of her sweater.
On the fold-out leather console sat an ice pack, which Roman held gently against Sadi’s calf where Trevor’s shoe had struck her.
“He took six hundred dollars from me,” Sadi whispered suddenly, staring at the small screen displaying the car's navigation route.
Roman’s hand paused for a fraction of a second. “When?”
“The night he left,” Sadi said. Her voice didn't tremble; she was simply recounting facts from a life that felt like it belonged to a completely different person. “I worked sixteen hours at the diner that weekend. My feet were bleeding. I was saving that money to buy my mother’s blood pressure medication. He took it out of the ceramic jar on top of the fridge and left a sticky note.”
She looked up into Roman’s grey eyes.
“He wrote: ‘I’m taking this as compensation for the time I wasted on you.’”
Roman did not speak right away. He raised his hand, gently brushing his thumb across Sadi’s chin, lifting her face so she had to look directly into his eyes.
“Six hundred dollars,” Roman murmured. His voice was terrifyingly calm. “An expensive sticky note.”
“Roman,” Sadi said, laying her hand over his wrist. “Don't kill him.”
Roman’s expression didn't change. “Why not? It would take Arthur four minutes. He wouldn't even miss his afternoon tea.”
“Because killing him gives him a quick exit,” Sadi replied, her hazel eyes reflecting a cold, sharp clarity that Roman had helped her cultivate over the past two years. “Trevor doesn't care about dying. He doesn't even know what death means. Trevor cares about status. He cares about his suit, his watch, his partnership, and the way people look at him in a room.”
She leaned closer, resting her forehead against his jaw.
“Strip him of his illusion, Roman. Let him live in the poverty he thought he was too good for. Let him watch everything he traded his soul for crumble into dust.”
A slow, dark smile tugged at the corner of Roman’s mouth. It was a beautiful, lethal sight.
“My clever little bird,” Roman whispered, kissing the crown of her head. “As you wish.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his encrypted satellite phone, and tapped a single speed-dial button.
“Arthur,” Roman said into the receiver.
“Yes, boss?” came Arthur’s gravelly voice from the lead SUV trailing fifty yards behind them.
“Contact Miller at Aldridge & Vance. Tell him I want a full financial audit of Trevor Sterling’s accounts by six o'clock tonight. Every expense report, every client retainer, every wire transfer. If he misfiled a single paperclip, I want his license revoked by morning.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Vance. What about the girl? Chloe?”
“Her father owns Vane Logistics, correct?” Roman asked casually.
“Yes, sir.”
“Cancel their port lease at Pier 42. Tell Vane he has forty-eight hours to clear his containers off my dock, or they go into the river.”
“Understood, sir.”
Roman ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, his hand returning to hold the ice pack against Sadi’s bruised leg.
Meanwhile, three miles away, Trevor Sterling was stumbling out of the Galleria’s side entrance into the pouring rain.
His suit was wet, his hand was swollen to twice its normal size, and his mind was a storm of panic. He pulled out his phone with his good hand, his thumb trembling so violently he nearly dropped the device into a puddle.
He called Chloe.
It went straight to voicemail.
He called her again.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service or has been blocked...”
“No, no, no,” Trevor muttered, pressing his phone to his forehead as cold rain soaked through his tight navy jacket. “This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Sadi is a diner waitress! She’s a nobody! She can't be married to Roman Vance!”
He ran a hand through his slicked hair, pulling at the roots in frustration.
He had to get to the office. He had to speak to Marcus Aldridge, the senior managing partner. If he could just explain that there had been a misunderstanding—that some mobster was threatening the firm—Aldridge would use the firm’s massive legal apparatus to protect him.
After all, Trevor was a rising star. He had brought in three new corporate clients this quarter. He was valuable.
He flagged down a yellow cab, practically throwing himself into the back seat.
“Financial District!” Trevor barked at the driver. “Ninth and Main! Drive fast!”
He looked out the window at his reflection in the glass. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and terrified. But deep inside his narcissistic brain, a tiny flame of delusion still flickered.
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‘It’s fine,’ Trevor lied to himself, squeezing his injured hand until the pain anchored him. ‘Sadi is just a trophy wife. She’s using him. When Aldridge hears about this, he’ll stand up for me. Roman Vance doesn't own the whole city.’
He was about to discover just how wrong he was.
